


Pixie Dust

by saekokato



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekokato/pseuds/saekokato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Matt tucks his wings up as tightly as he can against his back as he tries not to think about his nice, warm, waterproof poncho hanging up next to his front door.  Or the fact that he is so very, very dead when his mother finds out about all of this.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Pixie Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the ever wonderful, ever indulgent [Roseclaw. ♥ This is a total and complete AU. Written for the Winter 2010 ](roseclaw.livejournal.com)[Sexy Right Challenge.](http://sexy-right.livejournal.com/)

It is a dark and stormy night, and Matt is screwed. He knew, knew, _knew_ he shouldn't have bothered going to Amy's without (a) a sleepover invite or (b) without his fucking poncho. If his mother knew how irresponsible he'd been (and let's face it, she did. She always did, and it had nothing to do with magic or "Mom sense" or knowing her children. She just _knew_.), she'd kill him.

Matt had decided in his teen years that he could be comforted by the fact that if his mother wanted him dead, she'd actually expend the energy to do it herself. No lame-ass assassins for the son of Linda Farrell, no sir. Still the comfort of his mother coming for him herself is a little weak in the face of how he is oh so totally dead, and not just dead from mom disappointment and disapproval, no. He's going to be all sick and snotty and achy, and his wings are going to take for fucking ever to dry.

"I should have just stayed home," Matt mutters to himself. He hops up and down a few times as he rubs his hands together. It isn't raining just yet, but the air is thick with the cold and the damp, so it might as well be pouring for the way his jittering isn't causing a torrential downpour of dust and sparkles. Hell, his wings aren't even glowing. They're vaguely brighter than normal, like a pair of glow sticks snapped on Halloween and taken out of the freezer on Christmas.

Stupid, stupid weather.

Matt shivers as he checks his watch again. The bus is twenty minutes late, and he hasn't seen more than two cars go by since he left Amy's place an hour ago. Between that and the way his nerves are doing the fucking tango from the stray magic in the air, Matt's pretty sure he missed the memo on the oncoming Magic Storm.

Magic Storms are rare with only one or two every five years in the most magically concentrated areas. Magic emanates from all natural things, from rocks to plants to humans and magical beings, creating a pool of energy for all to use. Magic Storms are the discharge of the excess energy in that communal pool. The tri-state area centralized around New York City is ranked third in the country for magical concentration after New Orleans and Austin, but first for Storms.

Mostly Storms are just a pain in the ass. Matt's been through six Storms and, even if at one point he had been impressed by the bright lights and spectacular domed magic fields that was when he'd been six. Sparkly lights and glittery flashes lose their appeal when everything electronic goes haywire and the only way to run anything, much less connect to the net, is to piggyback off of Warlock's bizarrely awesome electro-magic generator field. Thing. And Warlock charges a small fortune for that privilege.

That, of course, isn't to mention the whole part about Storms being deadly for anyone unlucky enough to be caught out in one. Between the lightning strikes, the polarized magic fields, the random bursts of wild magic, and the erratic weather behavior – ranging from torrential rain to hail, and the occasionally short-lived tornado - being outside in a Storm has something like a ninety-five percent mortality rate.

"Fucking perfect," he mutters under his breath. His apartment is across town, and he can't even grab a cab. He sure as hell ain't walking there, wouldn't have even if there hadn't been a Storm rising – some neighborhoods took exception to stray Pixies running about. And Matt takes exception to being squashed like a bug.

He can't even go back to Amy's, because she's probably already sleeping the sleep of the undead. Matt honestly thinks it is less actual sleep and more self-induced coma, but that is neither here nor there considering voicing that opinion is sure fire way of having his ass kicked. Also, Matt isn't really interested in sitting out on her front stoop during a Storm.

A drop of water splats against his forehead. A second later, another hits his shoulder. Then another hits the tip of his wing and sizzles.

"Great. Now it's raining," Matt sighs. He shivers and shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets. He ducks into the bus stop shelter a split second before the heavens open up. He manages to stay dry for all of a minute before the wind kicks up and sends waves of water into the open parts of the shelter.

Matt tucks his wings up as tightly as he can against his back as he tries not to think about his nice, warm, waterproof poncho hanging up next to his front door. Or the fact that he is so very, very dead when his mother finds out about all of this.

|-|

Twenty minutes later, Matt is very much soaked to the bone, but his wings are mostly dry – mostly because they're still steaming, and they do that right up until they are completely saturated – which he's choosing to count as a win. He's considering going back to Amy's despite the fact that she'd just sleep through him pounding the door down – maybe one of her neighbors would take pity on a poor soaked Pixie – when a dark sedan pulls up to the bus stop. The window rolls down and a bald man holds up a badge for Matt to see.

Which he only can because the rain has gone from torrential tsunami-like waves to a regular old downpour. Small favors and all.

"Detective John McClane, kid. You've picked the wrong night for a bus ride," the cop says. Matt likes the gruff undertones to his voice. The guy sounds like a hardass and an asshole, but more because he's been around the block a time or two, and not just because he's a dick. And maybe Matt projecting his fantasies again. "Buses stopped running three hours ago due to the Storm."

Matt rubs a hand over his face. "Perfect." It's times like these that he wishes he actually listened to the news.

"Yeah, expect I haven't even told you about how this Storm is predicted to be worse than '07's, and headed right this way." McClane sounds amused. Matt's glad someone is.

The '07 Storm is said to be the worst Storm in over a century. Among other things it had hit the eastern power and utilities station in Maryland, knocking out power over the whole of the east coast for three weeks. Matt still owes Warlock for the whole two weeks Matt spent stranded at his house.

"You need to head indoors," McClane continues.

Matt snorts. "Yeah, see, that's what I had been trying to do, what with hanging out at a bus stop and all."

McClane smirks at him. Matt, if forced, would insist that he sways because of the wind. There's nothing special about some old cop's smirk. Really. "Right. Where do you live?"

"Camden Heights." Which sounds so much more glorious than the place has ever deserved. Matt only lives there because it was the one neighborhood he and his mother could agree on. Plus there's a twenty-four hour deli around the corner that delivers at all hours and makes the best sandwiches known to pixiekind.

The look on McClane's face is pretty much the same one that had been on Matt's mother's when she'd finally gotten around to seeing his apartment. "No friends in the area?"

"None that would be awake enough to open the door," Matt says. A gust of wind cuts around the car, and Matt tucks his arms up around his chest, bouncing up and down a few times in a futile effort to warm up.

McClane's lips purse as he watches Matt. The look is totally hot on McClane, and Matt resists the urge to squirm. Instead, he bounces up and down a few more times because, holy fuck, it is cold with the wind picking up again.

"Stupid fucking weather," he mutters. He rubs his hands up and down his arms as he stares at the ground. He has no idea how he's going to get home now. Storm means no buses and no cabs, and the one shelter in the area is possibly the biggest off-limits zone on his mother's list of Places Matt is Never to Go, Ever, On the Pain of Horrible, Terrible Death. Basically he's screwed.

"Get in."

"Huh?" Matt's head shoots up and he blinks at McClane. Who scowls at him and gestures him to come around to the passenger side of the car.

"Seriously, kid. Get in," McClane repeats. There's enough of a 'don't fuck with me on this, Matthew, or I swear you'll regret it' underlying tone to the order that has Matt moving before he really thinks about it.

"Sorry about your seats," is the first thing that leaves Matt's mouth once he's in the car and buckled. He flushes a little when McClane cuts a glance over at him as he pulls the car away from the bus stop and into the rain. "They're going to be soaked."

"It's water, kid. It'll dry," McClane says. He's back to sounding amused.

"Still," Matt says. He fiddles with the flap on his messenger bag. He's dreading opening it up and finding that the weatherproof spell had gone bust, leaving his portable gear several hunks of now useless metal and circuit boards.

"Trust me, kid. They've seen worse," McClane says. He reaches out and fiddles with the heat and then the vent on Matt's side of the car.

Matt does his very best not to either collapse against the seat to bask in the warmth or to lean forward to get closer to the vents. "Thank you. And it's Matt. Matt Farrell."

"Don't mention it, Matt. I'm just doing my job," McClane says. There's something about the way he says that that makes Matt look over at him. McClane keeps his eyes on the road, even though his eyebrow twitches a little like he's acknowledging Matt's gaze. McClane's hands are loose on the steering wheel, and he's lounging back in the seat like he's home with a beer watching the ballgame on TV, and not driving through a magic-fueled downpour on the brink of the biggest Storm in years. Looking at him, Matt knows that McClane is a powerful and dangerous man, certainly not someone Matt would ever want to go up against in a dark alley.

Not that Matt would want to go up against anyone in a dark alley. Matt's a Pixie, which means he can hold his own in a fight if he needs to, but he also acknowledges that he is a computer geek who spends too much time indoors. Matt's fight or flight reflex is firmly fixed on 'flight'.

"Still, thank you," Matt says. He means it for everything, a blanket phrase of gratitude for the ride and the heat and the information about the Storm. McClane seems to understand, if Matt reads his glance and subtle nod right.

Passing under a still lit street lamp, Matt catches the glint of something shining against the exposed skin of McClane's forearms. It almost looks like scales, and then Matt blinks, and it's gone.

Must have been a trick of the light. Matt turns his head so he's looking out the windshield and not staring blatantly at his rescuer. His mother had managed to instill some manners into her youngest son.

|-|

The city is quiet as they drive. All sensible people have found their way indoors or to places of shelter, and the only things happening at street level are the flickering street lamps and the bursts of wild magic. In the twenty minutes it takes them to drive the deserted streets to Matt's apartment complex, Matt spots three clusters of focus lightning, two air elementals, six fire elementals, a half-dozen sprites, a trio of vapors, and one tiny cyclone losing battle against a fast food dumpster. All fairly normal occurrences for a storm this size.

Then they start coming up on Matt's block. Two blocks over, Matt's wings start tingling like he'd just walked through some wickedly powerful wards, and McClane starts tensing up. Not obvious like a deer in headlights tensing up, but a more subtle shift in his posture, in the way his hands grip the steering wheel, and the way his eyes dart around.

One block away, Matt's stomach is churning, and he has a very bad feeling about what they're going to run into. There are no working streetlamps – Matt hasn't seen a stitch of artificial lighting for three blocks – but there's still a glow in the air lighting up the street like a headlight manufacture's wet dream.

Then they turn the corner for Matt's street, and McClane slams on the brakes, his arm shooting out to pin Matt back against the seat. Matt's too busy gapping at the blue-ish, pink-ish, purple-ly dome draped over the vast majority of the block to care. The only thing Matt can see of his apartment complex, which takes up two-thirds of the block, is Mrs. Grenwald's petunia patch next to where the front walk is supposed to be.

"Shit," Matt says. His eyes follow a particularly nice streak of magic lightning as it arches from the very top of the dome to a spot about a foot and a half away from Mrs. Grenwald's petunias. There is no way he's going home while the Storm is happening.

Here's the thing about Magic Storms and magic domes. Small, ineffective domes are the norm for most Storms. When Matt had been three, he'd watched a dome cover his neighbor's dog house, and the dog had just run back and forth through the thing with only a little bit of static electricity to show for it. Granted they couldn't pet Ginger for three days afterward, but there were no bad side effects for her passing through the dome.

The dome covering Matt's block is located at the opposite end of the spectrum from Ginger's dome. This thing is huge and nasty, and magic domes this size only happen during the worst of Storms. And forget about walking through the dome like Ginger had. Everyone inside the dome is safe, everyone outside the dome is safe, but no one can cross through without being turned into a crispy critter.

The other nasty side effect of a dome this size is it's effect on electronics. Matt knows that his apartment, with all of his electronic gear – his baby, his massive and powerful and sleekly dangerous computer, Allison – is going to look like someone had set a bomb off in it. Magic domes of this power plus electricity slash high tech circuitry equals a very large BOOM!

"I don't think you're going home tonight, kid," McClane says. Matt just nods, still staring at the dome with a mixture of shock, awe, and dread. "Do you have anywhere else you can go, kid? Kid? Matt!"

"Huh, what?" Matt tears his eyes away from the dome and turns to look at McClane, who is watching him expectantly. Matt takes a second to backtrack through the conversation and sighs when he figures out what McClane was asking him. "I don't have any other place to go. My parent's are in Connecticut, and most of my friend's live out of town. I can just go to a shelter until the Storm passes."

McClane frowns but nods. "I'll call in, see what shelters are still taking people in."

He reaches for his radio, and Matt turns back to the dome, wondering just how much of the damage his insurance policy will actually cover despite his paying the highest fucking premiums imaginable. Allison had cost him a small fortune and three years to actually build, he does not want to think about how long it is going to take him to rebuild, or about the programs he'd left running when he'd left. Three weeks of work, gone.

Matt hears McClane talking to someone, but the conversation doesn't really register until McClane snaps, "I wouldn't send a dog to Stranglers, are you kidding me, Jack?"

"John, it's the only shelter in the whole city still open," the guy on the other end of the line says. It sounds like that isn't the first time the guy's said that.

"For good reason, too," McClane says. Then he rubs his forehead and cuts off his conversation with a line of cop mumbo jumbo.

"Stranglers or the streets? Not really a plethora of awesome choices there, man," Matt quips. He'd take the streets over Stranglers any day, Storm or not. Hell, Amy's front stoop would be better. Stranglers isn't the official name for the Southside shelter, but after a string of murders back in the nineties, all involving strangulation in some form, the nickname had stuck. Sadly, the murders weren't the worst of what happened on that street, hence it's place at the top of Matt's mother's Do Not Go list.

Not that Matt needed his mother's lists to know not to go anywhere near Stranglers. Just the thought of being there on his own is making his wings twitch.

McClane sighs, muttering something under his breath that Matt doesn't quite catch – why would McClane mutter that he has the worst ideas ever and how everything always backfires on him? "There is another option."

"What? You going to take me back to the precinct and let me hide out in the drunk tank for the night?" Matt asks. Actually, that isn't the worst idea Matt's ever heard. Sure beats Stranglers or Amy's front stoop.

"No, the tank is full," McClane says. "You can crash on my couch."

"Wait, really?" Matt asks. McClane raises an eyebrow at him, and Matt can feel himself flushing. Great, Farrell, way to sound like an over eager kid there. "I mean, you don't even know me, and it isn't like there isn't an open shelter available…"

"I'm not taking anyone to Strangler's, kid, and I'm not leaving you on the street," McClane says. He puts the car into gear, pulling a quick u-turn, and heading back to the main strip. "Besides, even if I was inclined to drop you in the tank, you look like a drowned puppy."

"Too much fresh meat?" Matt asks. He isn't really inclined to argue with McClane anyway. The guy seems pretty stand up, and besides, he's hot. Spending a night or two on his couch until the Storm passes won't really be that much of a hardship. And at least trying to keep himself from drooling over the guy will keep him from thinking about how much shit he's going to have to deal with once he gets back to his apartment.

"Something like that," McClane agrees. He's back to sounding amused again.

|-|

McClane lives on the other side of the city in the old redbrick district. It's a quiet, family neighborhood – Matt knows a couple that lives round the corner – a little odd for a career cop who doesn't have a ring on his finger. Matt manages to keep his mouth shut as McClane pulls into a parking spot in front of the only dark house on the street. Now is not the time to annoy the guy offering up shelter from Storm.

"Home sweet home," McClane quips as he leads Matt up to the house and unlocks the door. He waves Matt inside first, and Matt finds himself dripping in a small but tastefully decorated front hallway. McClane follows him inside, shutting the door, locking it, and rebooting the alarm system.

McClane shows him where to stow his shoes and points him at the bathroom. "Just leave your wet clothes by the door. I'll drop off some clean stuff and throw the others in the wash."

"Wow, McClane, that's really Suzy Homemaker of you," Matt says. He's staring at a younger picture of McClane with a pretty redhead about the same age. Judging by the hairstyles, it had to be taken back in the early eighties. So he totally doesn't realize what he just said until he hears McClane laugh.

Matt won't lie, it's a little startling, hearing McClane laugh. But its pretty cool, too.

"Yeah, you should tell that one to my ex-wife," McClane says. "She'd tell you to go see a shrink. And you're a guest in my house. You might as well call me John."

Matt blinks. "Right, John. Okay. So, shower? Then food?"

McClane, John, laughs again. "Yeah, kid, I'll feed you. Go shower. Just be quick. You don't want to be in there if the Storm swings this way."

Matt nods, because, dude. Totally. That would be very much a horrible way to die.

John just laughs and gives him a half shove towards the bathroom. Matt stumbles a little because, wow. The guy is a lot stronger than Matt would have thought, if he'd been thinking about it. Which he hadn't because that would be totally weird.

Matt shakes his head as he shuts the bathroom door. "You need to get a hold of yourself, Farrell. Just because the guy offered you a place to stay doesn't mean you need to throw yourself at him."

Matt's reflection looks unimpressed by this. Behind him, Matt's wings shift color from their normal pale cream to a faint pink color before fading back to normal with a small burst of dust.

"No, seriously. No. He's completely off limits, stupid wings," Matt groans. One of the biggest drawbacks to being a Pixie – and despite Matt's moaning and groaning, there really aren't many – is that it is impossible to hide the fact that he's interested in someone. His wings start doing their little light and dust show, and Matt ends up being pummeled by the quarterback and his goons.

On the other side of the equation, one of the awesome things about Pixie Magic is that any shirt or coat a Pixie puts on automatically allows for the wings to come through. It's like an instant tailoring spell, only it's complete innate. It was bred into the species something like a millennia or whatever ago, at least according to Matt's Nana, who knows just about everything ever about Pixie history.

Matt decides to just ignore his wings. Maybe John won't have any idea what the shifting colors mean, or he'll think that it's just something to do with the Storm. Yeah, that'll totally work.

Matt strips down and puts his clothes in a neat pile next to the door. The bathroom has a neat little divider wall that separates the front portion of the bathroom, with the sink and the linen closet, from the back portion, with the toilet and the tub/shower combo, so Matt feels a little less self-conscious stepping into the shower. Not that he really has to worry about John seeing anything – the guy has one of the most opaque shower curtains Matt has ever seen.

Matt's halfway through washing his hair when he hears the knock on the door. Before he has a chance to say anything or even stick his head around the curtain, John opens the bathroom door.

"Just me, kid. Clean clothes are on the wall, extra toothbrushes are in the closet below the towels," John says.

"Okay, thanks, man," Matt says. He ducks his head back under the water before his mouth decides to follow his wings into traitordom. He hears John say something, then the door click shut behind him.

Matt leans his head against the wall. He is so, so very screwed.

|-|

Ten minutes later, Matt is squeaky clean and minty fresh. He comes downstairs wearing a pair of too large sweatpants – they keep sliding down his hips, even though he rolled the waistband a little to keep from tripping on the bottoms – and toweling his hair dry, a NYPD softball t-shirt slung over his shoulder.

John is in the kitchen, chopping something at the counter. He'd changed, too, into a pair of loose sweatpants and a dark t-shirt, and Matt takes a second to stare before he mental slaps himself upside the head. No ogling the host, right.

"Dude, you seriously have the best water pressure ever," Matt says as he crosses the living room into the kitchen. The scent of whatever it is that John has frying up on the stove reaches Matt's noise, and his stomach grumbles happily. "And that smells amazing. Let me guess, you're not only an awesome cop, but a world renown chef, too?"

John snorts. "Yeah, kid, I'm the next Emerl." He finishes chopping what looks like a red pepper before scooping the vegetable up and tossing it into pan. "It's just a lazy man stir fry."

"Lazy man whatever, it still smells amazing," Matt says. "Need me to do anything?"

"Nah, I've got this, kid," John says. "You can grab some plates though. Second cupboard behind you."

Matt finds the plates right where John said they'd be, and some silverware in the drawer below. While John finishes the stir fry, Matt takes care of cleaning up the counter. He thinks he catches John watching him, but he chalks it up to him just being a little insane and wanting to see things.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt sees his wings shift color again and he scowls at the fridge. Stupid wings. Hopefully John isn't allergic to pixie dust.

They're not really talking, just John answering a question when Matt needs to find something or put something away, but it isn't an awkward type of silence, more comfortable. Matt's finally starting to really relax when John moves to grab the plates and the skin on his arms flare a little in the light.

Matt blinks, then rubs his eyes. He has to be more tired or hungry or something than he thought he was, if he's still seeing weird shit. He doesn't think he was actually hit with anything by the Storm, but then again, magic can be a sneaky little shit.

"You okay, kid?" John asks. He's holding the plates and watching Matt carefully.

Matt shakes his head to clear it and grins at John. "Yeah, fine. Just seeing things."

John frowns. "Seeing things? What kind of things?"

Matt does his best to keep his wince internal, but he's pretty sure he's failed massively, judging by the way John shifts towards him. "Nothing, really. For a second it just looked like your arms were covered in scales, weird right? It's probably just the excess magic from the Storm, messing with my head, you know?"

And okay, Matt realizes that thinking a guy's covered in scales may be a little funny, but that doesn't really explain John laughing like he does.

"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up, funny guy," Matt says. He crosses his arms over his chest, wishing his wings were dry enough for him to pull the t-shirt on. It's bad enough they keep poofing dust without him being half naked on top of it. "I'm glad the mind altering effects of the storm making me see things is so amusing for you."

"Relax, kid," John says. He puts the plates down on the counter and holds his arm up towards Matt, twisting it in the light. As he twists, the light catches on what really does look like rows and rows of tiny scales covering John's arm. "I'm one-third dragon, kid. The scales are actually there."

Matt blinks. Then he reaches out and runs a finger over John's forearm. It feels like regular old skin only more… textured? Matt thinks that's the best way to describe it. "Dude, cool."

"Yeah, kid. Cool," John says. He's smirking at Matt when Matt looks up from where his finger is still running over John's arm.

Matt pulls his hand back quickly and mock frowns at John to try and cover the speed of the action. He's pretty sure John isn't fooled. He's also pretty sure his wings have shifted color again. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"

"Yes," John says. He grins at Matt again before he turns back to serving up the stir fry, which really, really does smell amazing. "My grandfather was a full-blooded dragon shapeshifter. My grandmother was human, so my father could only shapeshift into his dragon form. I can't shift, which both my ex-wife and my bosses agree is only to the good, but I have a few dragon traits."

"Like the scales," John agrees. He hands Matt his plate and gestures him towards the living room. "Go pick out something for us to watch. I'm pretty sure the cable isn't going to be working."

Matt goes. John doesn't have a huge collection of movies but he has plenty of mindless ones with lots of explosions. Matt puts one in that he remembers not being too horrible, and curls up on one corner of the couch. John joins him after a minute and they eat in companionable silence.

|-|

Three nights later, and the Storm is still going strong. John had attempted to take Matt back to his apartment twice, but both times the dome was still going strong. Matt could admit that it was a beautiful force of nature and yadda yadda yadda, but mostly? He really just wanted to go home.

Really.

The Storm had swung it's way into John's neighborhood around the second afternoon. John had been ordered by his captain to stay home at that point, and since Matt wasn't going to go out walking to see if his apartment building was safe to enter, Matt had to stay, too.

Matt chooses to think of the experience as an extended sleepover, with male bonding and relatively unhealthy food and lots of mindless movies with explosions. He opts not to mention the whole inexplicable crush thing that is going on – he figures his wings are doing enough silent commentary on that one.

Matt thinks he might actually have been a little better off if John hadn't been watching him as closely as he was. Even if he hadn't seen and felt the scales up close and personal like, Matt would have believed that John was part dragon. The man certainly has the piercing gaze of one.

Matt forces himself not to think about how much he likes the way John is watching him.

|-|

The third night rolls in and Matt suggests a movie marathon of one the series that John had collected. They'd both spent the day wandering the house and doing everything they could think of that hadn't included (a) watching the Storm rage from one of many windows or (b) worrying about what the Storm was doing outside when they weren't watching it rage from one of the many window. By nightfall, Matt really just wants to curl up on the couch and not think for a little while. Apparently John agrees, because he suggests the movies and lets Matt pick out the flavor of popcorn.

Somewhere between the third and forth movie – with just as many explosions as the three, but even worse acting – Matt ends up sprawled along the couch, his feet tucked under John's thigh. John had only shifted to accommodate Matt, his own feet propped up on his worn coffee table and one arm slung across the back of the couch. Matt forces himself to focus on the TV and not on how warm John is or how defined the muscles in his thighs are.

"Okay, there is no possible way that could have ever happen," Matt says as the fourth movie ends. "I don't even care if you want to pull magic into the equation, shit like that just can't happen."

John chuckles. "That's Hollywood for you. All flash and no research."

"Seriously! I mean, I've never handled a gun in my life, but that was just ridiculous," Matt says.

John nods as he climbs to his feet. "Yep, it would have blown up in the guy's face if he'd actually tried that. I'm getting another drink, you want anything?"

Matt shakes his head. "No, thanks. I'm just going to run to the little man's room."

Once in the bathroom, Matt splashes some water on his face. He can practically feel his wings vibrating, that's how often they're switching colors, and he's going to need to vacuum John's living room before he leaves to get rid of the excess dust, because that stuff will stain if you let it linger too long.

"Okay, enough. I am not throwing myself at John," Matt tells his reflection. "Yes, he's hot. Yes, he saved my life. Yes, he cooks a mean stir fry, and his soap smells awesome. That does not mean anything other than what it is. So you two, knock it off with the dust. I'm going to end up with allergies if you keep this up."

Matt's wings just shift color from red to blue to cream in response. Yeah, Matt is screwed.

Matt doesn't see John when he comes back downstairs. Matt is taking an extra second to remind his wings to behave when John seemingly appears out of nowhere.

"Talking to yourself, Matt?" John asks. He's leaning against the wall next to Matt, no drink in his hand, and the way he's watching him makes Matt feel a little like prey.

Matt's wings twitch, loosing a large burst of dust and glitter. Matt glares at his arm as he brushes it off. "Yep. Just telling the wings to behave themselves."

"Oh, really?" John says. He's still just watching Matt, looking a little amused and a lot something else Matt can't put his finger on.

"Yeah, they've minds of their own," Matt says. He's going to start babbling, he knows it and he can't stop himself. "They're like unruly children. You tell them to behave, and they go right ahead and do whatever they want, damn the consequences. They just won't listen to reason…"

John reaches out and grabs the waistband of the sweatpants Matt is wearing, using the hold to tug Matt over against him. "Oh, you mean the way they've been changing colors like a kaleidoscope on crack, and leaving a layer of pixie dust all over the place?" His other hand slides over Matt's side and around to settle on the small of his back.

Matt gulps. "Um, yeah, that." He would keep talking but the way John is watching him is making his mouth go dry, not to mention the fact that his nerves are singing at the way John is just stroking over the skin on his back. He really has no idea what is happening, but he isn't exactly against whatever it is.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice the light show, kid?" John asks. He smiles slow and smooth at Matt, and whatever resistance Matt could have found to stop whatever this is – because John isn't seducing him, no. That'd be crazy – just shrivels up and blows away. "I've been a cop for a long time; I know all the signs for when a Pixie is interested."

Matt takes a deep breath and tries to figure out where to put his hands. He ends up settling them tentatively on John's arms, just under his shirt sleeves. "So. Does this mean you're interested, too?"

"I'm a dragon, kid," John says. The hand at Matt's hip squeezes rhythmically. "We're territorial fuckers. You're in my house, wearing my clothes, smelling like my soap, and you ate my food."

"Oh," Matt says. He smiles up at John. "Cool."

He shifts towards John, pressing against him as his wings stretch and flutter, and the next thing he knows John has shifted them against the wall, pinning Matt there while he kisses him, hard and deep.

Matt hums into the kiss as he slides his hands up John's arm and around his neck. He's still so very, very screwed, but he really couldn't care less.

Stupid fucking weather, indeed.


End file.
